Fifty Shades Of Jones
by CaptainFiftyShades
Summary: AU. have you ever wondered what fifty shades of grey would be like if it was done with characters of once upon a time? more specifically captain swan? well here is the answer:
**Disclaimer: do not own Once Upon a Time or Fifty Shades Trilogy**

Damn my hair for not going up in a pony tail damn my hair for looking to perfect and damn Elsa Doyle for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission.

I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, blonde-haired girl with green eyes too big for her face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to leave my hair down and hope that I look semi presentable.

Elsa is my roommate and best friend, she has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she had arranged to do, with some mega-industrialist tycoon I've never heard of, for the student newspaper. Thus I have been to made to do it. Today I have to drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown Seattle in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Jones Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our University, his time is extraordinarily precious – much more precious than mine – but he has granted Elsa an interview. A real coup, she tells me. Damn her extra-curricular activities.

I walk into the living room to find elsa huddled up on the couch. "Elsa you love the cold and somehow you have gotten one." "haha very funny"

"Emma, I'm sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we'll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can't blow this off. Please," Elsa begs me in her rasping, sore throat voice. How does she do it? Even ill she looks an ice queen, white blonde hair in place and blue eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy. "Of course I'll go Elsa. You should get back to bed. "Here are the questions and iphone." "I have my phone Elsa now go back to bed." Only for you, Elsa would I do this. " Good luck. And thanks Emma – as usual, you're my lifesaver." Gathering my bag, I smile wryly at her, then head out the door to the bug. I cannot believe I have let Elsa talk me into this. But then Elsa can talk anyone into anything.

The roads are clear as I set off from Vancouver, WA toward Portland on the I-5. It's early, and I don't have to be in Seattle until two the afternoon. My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Jones's global enterprise. It's a huge twenty-eight story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect's utilitarian fantasy, with Jones House written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors.

It's a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I'm not late as I walk into the enormous – and frankly intimidating – glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby. Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, brunette young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She's wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate. "I'm here to see Mr. Jones. Emma Swan for Elsa Doyle." "Excuse me one moment, Miss Swan." She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand confidently before her. I have made an effort and worn my one and only leather skirt, my sensible ankle high boots, black stockings, denim button up and a black blazer. For me, this is sensible. "Miss Doyle is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Swan. You'll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twenty-eighth floor." She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in.

She hands me a security pass that has VISITOR very firmly stamped on the front. I can't help but smirk. Surely it's obvious that I'm just visiting. I don't fit in here at all. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators past the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits. The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twenty-eighth floor. The doors slide open, and I'm in another large lobby – again all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I'm confronted by another desk of sandstone and young brunette woman dressed impeccably in black and white who rises to greet me. "Miss Swan, could you wait here, please?" she says in a Australian accent while pointing to a seated area of white leather chairs. Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the Seattle skyline that looks out through the city toward the Sound. It's a stunning view, and I'm momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow.

I sit down, fish the questions from my bag, and go through them, inwardly cursing Elsa for not providing me with a brief biography. I know nothing about this man I'm about to interview. He could be ninety or he could be thirty, he could be hot he could be ugly. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic fairytale novel, curled up in a chair in the campus library.

I guess Jones is in his forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the personnel. Another elegant, flawlessly dressed brunette comes out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate brunettes? Taking a deep breath, I stand up. "Miss Swan?" what the hell she has a Australian accent as well it seems Mr Jones has a type. "Yes," I croak, and clear my throat. "Yes." There, that sounded more confident. "Mr. Jones will see you in a moment. May I take your jacket?" "Oh please." I struggle out of the jacket. "Have you been offered any refreshment?" "Um – no." oh no Brunette Number One in troublllllle? Brunette number two frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk. "Would you like tea, coffee, water?" she asks, turning her attention back to me. "A glass of water. Thank you," _water is magic_ I murmur. "Lacey, please fetch Miss Swan a glass of water." Her voice is stern. Lacey scoots up immediately and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer. "My apologies, Miss Swan, Lacey is our new intern and my sister. Please be seated. Mr. Jones will be another five minutes." Lacey returns with a glass of iced water. "Here you go, Miss Swan." "Thank you."

Brunette Number Two marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. She sits down, and they both continue their work. Perhaps Mr. Jones insists on all his employees being brunette. I'm wondering idly if that's legal, when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive man who looks like Hercules exits. He turns and says through the door. "Golf, this week, Jones." I don't hear the reply. He turns, sees me, and smiles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Lacey has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. "Good afternoon ladies," he says as he departs through the sliding door. "Mr. Jones will see you now, Miss Swan. Do go through," Brunette Number Two says.

Gathering up my bag, I abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially open door. "You don't need to knock – just go in." She smiles kindly. I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office. Double crap – me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Jones's office, and gentle hands are around me helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow – he's so young. "Miss Doyle." He extends a long-fingered hand to me once I'm upright. "I'm Killian Jones. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?" So young – and attractive, deviously handsome and a british accent! He's tall, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and red tie with unruly dark black hair and piercing blue eyes that regard me shrewdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice. "Um. Actually–" I mutter. If this guy is over thirty then I'm a monkey's uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate.

"Miss Doyle is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Jones." "And you are?" His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it's difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested, but above all, polite. "Emma Swan. I'm studying English Literature with Elsa, um… Miss Doyle at Washington State." "I see," he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in his expression, but I'm not sure. "Would you like to sit?"

He waves me toward a white leather buttoned L-shaped couch. His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there's a huge modern dark-wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white – ceiling, floors, and walls except, on the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite – a series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking. "A local artist. Trouton," says Grey when he catches my gaze. "They're lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary," I murmur, distracted both by him and the paintings. He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently. "I couldn't agree more, Miss Swan," he replies, his voice soft and for some inexplicable reason I find myself blushing. Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Pirate who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me.

I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Elsa's questions from my bag. Next, I set up my phone recorder and I am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. Mr. Jones says nothing, waiting patiently – I hope – as I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he's watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he's trying to suppress a smile. "Sorry," I stutter. "I'm not used to this." "Take all the time you need, Miss Swan," he says. "Do you mind if I record your answers?" "After you've taken so much trouble to set up the recorder – you ask me now?" I flush. He's teasing me? I hope. I blink at him, unsure what to say, and I think he takes pity on me because he relents. "No, I don't mind."

"Did Elsa, I mean, Miss Doyle, explain what the interview was for?" "Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year's graduation ceremony." Oh! This is news to me, and I'm temporarily pre-occupied by the thought that someone not much older than me – okay, maybe six years or so, and okay, mega successful, but still – is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand. "Good," I swallow nervously. "I have some questions, Mr. Jones." "I thought you might," he says, deadpan. He's laughing at me. My cheeks heat at the realization, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating. Pressing the start button on the recorder, I try to look professional.

"You're very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?" I glance up at him. His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disappointed. "Business is all about people, Miss Swan, and I'm very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn't, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well." He pauses and fixes me with his blue stare. "My belief is to achieve success in any scheme one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is, it's always down to good people." "Maybe you're just lucky." This isn't on Elsa's list – but he's so arrogant. His eyes flare momentarily in surprise. "I don't subscribe to luck or chance, Miss Swan. The harder I work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly. I think it was Harvey Firestone who said 'the growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership.'" "You sound like a control freak." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. "Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Swan," he says without a trace of humor in his smirk.

I look at him, and he holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens, and my face flushes again. Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? His overwhelming good-looks maybe? The way his eyes blaze at me? The way he strokes his index finger against his lower lip? I wish he'd stop doing that. "Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself in your secret reveries that you were born to control things," he continues, his voice soft. "Do you feel that you have immense power?" Control Freak. "I employ over 715 thousand people, Miss Swan. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility – power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications business and sell up, 715 thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so." My mouth drops open. I am staggered by his lack of humility. "Don't you have a board to answer to?" I ask. "I own my company. I don't have to answer to a board." He raises an eyebrow at me. I flush. Of course, I would know this if I had done some research. But holy crap, he's so arrogant. I change tactic.

"And do you have any interests outside your work?" "I have varied interests, Miss Swan." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Very varied." And for some reason, I'm confounded and heated by his steady gaze. His eyes are alight with some wicked thought. "But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?" "Chill out?" He smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. I stop breathing. He really is deviously handsome. No one should be this good-looking. "Well, to 'chill out' as you put it – I sail, I fly, I sword fight, I indulge in various physical pursuits." He shifts in his chair. "I'm a very wealthy man, Miss Swan, and I have expensive and absorbing hobbies." I glance quickly at Elsa's questions, wanting to get off this subject. "You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?" I ask. Why does he make me so uncomfortable? "I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?" "That sounds like your heart talking rather than logic and facts." His mouth quirks up, and he stares appraisingly at me. "Possibly. Though there are people who'd say I don't have a heart." _Maybe the evil queen stole it_ "Why would they say that?" "Because they know me well." His lip curls in a wry smile.

"Would your friends say you're easy to get to know?" And I regret the question as soon as I say it. It's not on Elsa's list. "I'm a very private person, Miss Swan. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don't often give interviews," he trails off. "Why did you agree to do this one?" "Because I'm a benefactor of the University, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn't get Miss Doyle off my back. She badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity." I know how tenacious Elsa can be. That's why I'm sitting here squirming uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze, when I should be studying for my exams. "You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?" "We can't eat money, Miss Swan, and there are too many people on this planet who don't have enough to eat." "That sounds very philanthropic. Is it something you feel passionately about? Feeding the world's poor?" He shrugs, very non-committal. "It's shrewd business," he murmurs, though I think he's being disingenuous. It doesn't make sense – feeding the world's poor? I can't see the financial benefits of this, only the virtue of the ideal. I glance at the next question, confused by his attitude.

"Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?" "I don't have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle _'A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets_ ' I'm very singular, driven. I like control – of myself and those around me." "So you want to possess things?" You are a control freak. "I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do." "You sound like the ultimate consumer." "I am."

He smiles, but the smile doesn't touch his eyes. Again this is at odds with someone who wants to feed the world, so I can't help thinking that we're talking about something else, but I'm absolutely mystified as to what it is. I swallow hard. The temperature in the room is rising or maybe it's just me. I just want this interview to be over. Surely Elsa has enough material now? I glance at the next question. 'You were adopted. How far do you think that's shaped the way you are?' Oh, this is personal he's just like me I can't ask him this.

"Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?" "I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving parents. I'm not interested in extending my family beyond that." "Are you gay, Mr. Jones?" _yeah I know I'm badass for asking that_ He inhales sharply, and I cringe, mortified. Crap. Maybe not so badass. Why didn't I employ some kind of filter before I read this straight out? How can I tell him I'm just reading the questions? Damn Elsa and her curiosity! "No Emma, I'm not." He raises his eyebrows, a cool gleam in his eyes. He does not look pleased. "I apologize. It's um… written here." It's the first time he's said my name. My heartbeat has accelerated, and my cheeks are heating up again.

Nervously, I tuck my loosened hair behind my ear. He cocks his head to one side. "These aren't your own questions?" The blood drains from my head. Oh no. "Err… no. Elsa – Miss Doyle – she compiled the questions." "Are you colleagues on the student paper?" Oh crap. I have nothing to do with the student paper. It's her extra-curricular activity, not mine. My face is aflame. "No. She's my roommate." He rubs his chin in quiet deliberation, his gray eyes appraising me. "Did you volunteer to do this interview?" he asks, his voice deadly quiet. Hang on, who's supposed to be interviewing whom? His eyes burn into me, and I'm compelled to answer with the truth. "I was drafted. She's not well." My voice is weak and apologetic. "That explains a great deal."

There's a knock at the door, and Brunette Number Two enters. "Mr. Jones, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes." "We're not finished here, Belle. Please cancel my next meeting."Belle hesitates, gaping at him. She's appears lost. He turns his head slowly to face her and raises his eyebrows. She flushes bright pink. Oh good. It's not just me. "Very well, Mr. Jones," she mutters, then exits. He frowns, and turns his attention back to me. "Where were we, Miss Swan?" Oh, we're back to 'Miss Swan' now. "Please don't let me keep you from anything." "I want to know about you. I think that's only fair." His blue eyes are alight with curiosity. Double crap. Where's he going with this? He places his elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. His mouth is very… distracting. I swallow. "There's not much to know," I say, flushing again. "What are your plans after you graduate?" I shrug, thrown by his interest. Come to Seattle with Elsa, find a place, find a job. I haven't really thought beyond my finals. "I haven't made any plans, Mr. Jones. I just need to get through my final exams." Which I should be studying for now rather than sitting in your palatial, swanky, sterile office, feeling uncomfortable under your penetrating gaze. "We run an excellent internship program here," he says quietly. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Is he offering me a job? "Oh. I'll bear that in mind," I murmur, completely confounded. "Though I'm not sure I'd fit in here." Oh no. I'm musing out loud again. "Why do you say that?" He cocks his head to one side, intrigued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "It's obvious, isn't it?" I'm uncoordinated, scruffy, and I'm not brunette. "Not to me," he murmurs. His gaze is intense, all humor gone, and strange muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly.

I tear my eyes away from his scrutiny and stare blindly down at my knotted fingers. What's going on? I have to go – now. I lean forward to retrieve my phone. "Would you like me to show you around?" he asks. "I'm sure you're far too busy, Mr. Jones, and I do have a long drive." "You're driving back to WSU in Vancouver?" He sounds surprised, anxious even. He glances out of the window. It's begun to rain. "Well, you'd better drive carefully." His tone is stern, authoritative. Why should he care? "Did you get everything you need?" he adds. "Yes sir," I reply, packing the recorder into my bag. His eyes narrow, speculatively. "Thank you for the interview, Mr. Jones." "The pleasure's been all mine," he says, polite as ever.

As I rise, he stands and holds out his hand. "Until we meet again, Miss Swan." And it sounds like a challenge, or a threat, I'm not sure which. I frown. When will we ever meet again? I shake his hand once more, astounded that that odd current between us is still there. It must be my nerves. "Mr. Jones." I nod at him. Moving with lithe athletic grace to the door, he opens it wide. "Just ensuring you make it through the door, Miss Swan." He gives me a small smile. Obviously, he's referring to my earlier less-than-elegant entry into his office. I flush. "That's very considerate, Mr. Grey," I snap, and his smile widens. I'm glad you find me entertaining, I glower inwardly, walking into the foyer. I'm surprised when he follows me out.

Belle and Lacey both look up, equally surprised. "Did you have a coat?" Jones asks. "Yes." Lacey leaps up and retrieves my jacket, which Jones takes from her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up and, feeling ridiculous, I shrug it on. Jones places his hands for a moment on my shoulders. I gasp at the contact. If he notices my reaction, he gives nothing away. His long index finger presses the button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting – awkwardly on my part, coolly self-possessed on his. The doors open, and I hurry in desperate to escape. I really need to get out of here. When I turn to look at him, he's leaning against the doorway beside the elevator with one hand on the wall. He really is very, very handsome. It's distracting. His burning blue eyes gaze at me. "Emma," he says as a farewell. "Killian," I reply. And mercifully, the doors close.


End file.
